


Hunter from the Hill

by Bioluminescent



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, S1E4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-12
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21764599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bioluminescent/pseuds/Bioluminescent
Summary: Alucard wakes from his coffin and meets his two new partners.
Kudos: 31





	Hunter from the Hill

**Author's Note:**

> So I finally started the show after saying for months that I was going to watch it and this is the first result! Hope you guys enjoy.
> 
> This is a dialogue sparse fic, so if you haven't seen the episode it likely won't make much sense, but you'll still be able to understand it.
> 
> title is from [here](https://www.poemtree.com/poems/Home-Is-the-Sailor.htm)
> 
> Not betaed

He is surprised when he wakes.

The last thing he remembers is the light above slipping away as the coffin closed, narrowing into the thinnest of golden slivers before disappearing completely, leaving him with nothing but grief and the aching pain in his chest. 

Light returns to him in an agonizing moment, slowing reversing his memory of being locked away to heal.

It blinds him at first, like the first radiant beams of sun on summer solstice after spending an ever dark winter with the Cold Ones to the far south.

But while his eyes burn and he slowly floats out of his coffin, it tingles happily across his bare shoulders and chest, tickling like the fingers of a pleased lover.

His hair falls to hide his face as the rest of his senses come screaming back to him.

Two heartbeats standing in the hall before his coffin, one fast and excited, the other also quick in its drumming, but slower, calmer, like a lion at the climax of the stalk. The smells of these people are overwhelming in their strength. Clearly humans, by the way their sweat twangs in the air like sharp lemon on the tongue, bitter in the back of the throat as apprehension and fear soak the air. Freshly spilled blood curls along the dank air like a finger, beckoning like a mother does to a child, and his fangs ache in his mouth. A faint hint of ozone and the crackle of wood in a fire from the slight woman on the right, a strange pulse of energy in her core he is not used to feeling in any pure human form. The man, broad in the shoulders and steady on his feet, smells of nothing but alcohol and the sharp wintery tang of those things wild and feral. Two to be wary of, but not to fear.

The woman responds to his question with awe in her voice, hope ringing clear in her accent. When she mentions Dracula a pain spears his chest not unlike that of being stabbed, and he is unable to hold back the slightest of flinches. The man is sarcastic in his truth, skepticism an underlying tickle at the back of the throat.

Questioning their beliefs to see true intentions is a lesson his mother taught him well.

The man, the _hunter_ , speaks unhurriedly, and his declaration of fact rings around the room not unlike that of a blade being released from the scabbard. The woman is almost desperate in her convictions of a hidden soldier to help save the world from his father.

It is almost unsurprising when the man is declared a Belmont by the woman. The leer in his voice, the snarl in the tone as he proclaims he knows what he is, the absolute _confidence_ as feet shift subtly to fighting readiness, all but screams of that family.

Finally he is able to open his eyes.

Blue robes the color of a clear summer sky folded neatly around the form of a woman. A Speaker then, how interesting. A soft gasp of shock as his nature is declared boldly to the dusty halls. 

And Belmont, in rough travel clothes, with a surprising sharpness to his shoulders and hips clearly displaying to those who know how to look, of a man underfed and needing of steady meals. But he still stands ready, throwing knives glinting on his chest, belt clean and oiled just like the whip on his hip.

All that confidence is so amusing coming from a man who has no idea who he is.

What is not amusing, is the low growl in Belmont’s voice as he speaks of the people no longer wanting the family around. A lazy wave of the hand to counteract the steady stalk of his steps, boot heels quiet even on stone. Old bitterness makes Belmont’s shoulders sharper, twitching under cloth as he comes to a stop to the side. It makes a shiver trickle down his spine when he catches the hate underlying the harsh bitterness. Questions flood his head, but those should be kept for when they are on steadier ground with each other.

A broken man, asked if he cares.

And an interesting turn of Belmont’s voice as he turns to meet his eyes, steely resolve hardening blue to chips of ice. He just catches a thrilled smile from the Speaker woman before Belmont declares his need to kill him.

Sharp accusations, the talk of his father, and the smell of fresh blood pushes him to be harsher than he might usually intend. Regardless, he needs to know if they are able, if they are truly capable for what he plans.

A twitch of the finger, a pulse of will, and his sword flies to his hand as Belmont rests a hand on his whip.

Belmont flings another insult his way as easily as breathing, and he leans forward, blood pulsing in time with the ache in his teeth, the need to hunt, to kill, to rend, inescapable in its power 一

Fabric rustles softly.

A blur of movement.

_C R A C K_

He registers his body being flung back before he is deafened by the whip, the Belmont child moving faster than he had expected. He gasps as the breath is driven from his lungs, shocked by the impact. Pain sears across his chest by the time he catches himself on the floor, sword held to the side for balance. Head down, he can see the mark on his stomach, bleeding and burning, and his chest throbs with this new wound. Even with a year recovering, without a fresh blood meal his wound is still tender.

Rage builds in his chest and he glances up to meet Belmont’s eyes. 

He hisses, fangs bared to the world, and Belmont merely releases his whip again, braided leather snapping against the air with cracks that echo through the stone hall.

Sharpened live steel against leather should not result in a long fight. Yet Belmont continues to surprise him as the whip swirls in the air, never stuttering to a halt at the collision of tip to blade. Even with the Speaker shouting at Belmont, the hunters concentration never wavers.

A quick spin, one arm tucked close to his chest, Belmont lashes out with the other, whip leaping out in one dangerously fast snap, but Belmont projected his movements just enough that he can lean to the side, whip barely kissing his cheek as it slices a strand of hair. He tumbles away, landing on stone, making eye contact just as Belmont flings a dagger his way. It is child’s play to leap into the air to avoid it, and he begins to assess how to unsettle Belmont when he catches the smirk on his face.

Whip sliding neatly between fingers and hands like water to the ground, Belmont guides it into an almost lazy curl in the air. One moment of tension between hands, one moment of feet bracing, and he coaxes it into an impossible [impossibly fast] slash of momentum and force that slams against his side and pushes him out of the air.

Another sting of pain across his side and he decides _enough_.

The moment Belmont resorts to pulling his shortsword from his belt, his enemy standing between him and his discarded whip on the floor, he knows it is already over.

But needs must and all.

He takes a moment to swing Belmont’s sword to the side, creating some space between them before he concentrates on that other place and shifts.

Belmont is barely able to get his sword up to block a fatal blow when he appears behind him, the force of it still shoving him back against the dias his coffin rests on. He lets him scramble up to his feet on the dias and then shifts once more. This time, Belmont is ready, swinging into his blade when he reappears.

So it seems the hunter can tell when something unseen is prepared to kill him. Good.

A head slams against his, hard enough to almost stun him, and he pushes back. Belmont slides across the stone, panting as he raises his sword. Looking closely reveals a slight muscle tremor in the arms, a wobble in one knee, but still Belmont fights like he is ready to die.

Another strong slash and metal shears, flinging itself into a dark corner.

Another bleeding gash makes itself known across his chest and he snarls. Belmont does not expect his fist.

He lands hard against the steps, grunting in pain and discomfort, broken hilt clattering to the side. Dropping his own sword, he steps forward.

Dark hair clenched in his fist. The tang of newly spilled blood flooding his nostrils.

“Do you have a god to put your last prayer to, Belmont?”

A smirk across a scarred face.

Pain blooms in his chest again, and he glances down in irritation at the knife Belmont has stabbed into him. The confident acknowledgement that even if he can rip Belmont’s throat out in an instance, he can still do his job as a born and bred vampire killer and slay him where he kneels.

Neither of them get the chance.

Light flares behind him and Belmont relaxes against hard stone, goading a predator that has already caught its prey, as heat washes over the two of them. 

The Speaker has found her resolve. Her magic pulses steadily in the air and it sizzles and snaps at his back. The fire cries to be let out, to burn, to consume, but her strength and control leaves him unscathed for now. He does not doubt for a moment the truth to her claim.

The shock on Belmont’s face as he lets go and stands is clear, wounds healing cleanly on his body until the only ache is the one in his chest.

“I am Adrian Tepes.”

Leaving his keep with a hopeful scholar, and a distrustful hunter, he does not look back.


End file.
